


Dear Mum and Dad,

by vestigialwords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/vestigialwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He misses the days when words came to him easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Mum and Dad,

**Author's Note:**

> Not Brit-picked. You have been warned.

_Dear Mum and Dad,  
I know it has been a while since we’ve spoken, but since the Christmas holidays are coming up, I wondered if maybe—_

No.

_I didn’t mean it when I said I never wanted to see you—_

Still no.

Percy crumpled the parchment and tossed it across his tiny one-room flat. He'd had to leave the flat he had once shared with Penelope. Before she left, he had no idea just how empty a home could feel. Outside his window, carolers heralded the coming of Christmas, or as it seemed this year, the coming of Hell itself. Christmases at home usually ended with him stomping up to his room and locking the door, but at least there the solitude was voluntary.

He stared at the pile of used parchment against the wall and wondered when he’d lost the ability to write. He had always struggled with the same bad habit of verbal directness that seemed to plague his brothers, but the written word had never failed him before. Not like this. He’d always been able to manipulate his words with subtlety and grace, to serve any purpose that came along. He was a scribe—it was only his job, after all. But lately, anything he wanted to say never quite found its way through his hand to the parchment.

Penelope had walked out on him a month ago, citing reasons like, "you’re always working," "we never talk anymore," or "you're really a miserable bastard, did you know that?" He’d spent the next few days on the floor in his boxers, curled around a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey and humming sad ballads to himself. When he finally decided to resurface, his mother had been unlucky enough to catch him on his return journey to sobriety. 

He'd slammed the door in her face—a fact that he had regretted immediately, although not for the same reasons that plagued him now. 

_Dear Mum and Dad,  
I want to apologise for my recent behaviour, and—_

That was no good either. 

_Dear Mum and Dad,  
I'm an idiot. _

No. However true, that was practically begging Fred and George to abuse him. 

He downed the rest of his drink and gave up. It was too late. They probably didn't want him anyway.


End file.
